


Denial

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Alley Sex, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Denial, Semi-Public Sex, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2652236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dallas never makes the deception easy to maintain." Dallas gets drunk and loses the worst of his inhibitions. Luck knows how this plays out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the-youngest-gandor-brother](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the-youngest-gandor-brother).



Dallas never makes the deception  _easy_  to maintain.

Tonight he arrives in the middle of a hand of poker, just as Luck is getting to a comfortable level of tipsy and is really considering appreciating the peace and letting himself have a pleasant night. He can feel the perpetual tension unknotting from his shoulders, is just reaching for his half-empty glass when there’s a pounding at the door, an unmistakable voice demanding, “I know you’re in there, Luck, don’t  _fuck_  with me!” with the slur of booze so heavy on the words Luck can hear it even with the muffled effect of the door itself.

“Shit,” he hisses, low so Keith won’t hear him, leaves his glass where it is so he can pinch the bridge of his nose instead. He can feel the pleasant warmth of alcohol going tepid in his veins, twisting into nothing but bitter on his tongue and the promise of a hangover even though he hasn’t had that much to drink, yet.

Dallas tends to have that effect on peaceful nights.

“I’ll get rid of ‘im,” Berga offers, is pushing to his feet before Luck lifts his other hand to wave him back.

“No.” He picks up his face-down hand, flips it over to force the game to an end. “I was losing anyway.”

Berga makes a shocked noise -- he’s never any good at reading past Luck’s admittedly well-polished poker face -- but Luck is heading towards the door already, turning his back on his brothers and moving fast as he can before Dallas says anything more telling than what he has.

“Lu-ck!” His drawl splits the name in two, drags the vowel long and slow as Luck reaches for the door handle. “Come  _on_ , I’m drunk and I want --”

“Shut up,” Luck is saying before he gets the door open, reaching out to clap his hand over Dallas’s open mouth without waiting for the words to sink into the other’s alcohol-drenched thoughts. His own voice is soft, pitched low so it won’t carry farther than the two of them, and whatever Dallas was going to say to finish the sentence is lost to the cover of his palm. “Unless you really do want to come clean to the whole city about your preferences.”

That gets him to shut up for a moment, long enough that Luck can let the damp press of Dallas’s lips on his skin go and slip out the door before tugging it shut behind him. It shuts out the warm glow of the inside, leaves just the dim yellow of the streetlights and Dallas, looking disheveled and unsteady and vicious as he always does when he comes by this late at night.

“‘M not the only one with  _preferences_ ,” Dallas says at last, but he’s talking lower, the whisper sharp and biting but still soft enough to grant them some measure of privacy. “‘S why I’m  _here_.”

“I’m not the one who feels he has something to lose,” Luck points out evenly. “My tastes are far better known than yours, even if I don’t publicize them.”

Dallas frowns, his mouth slanting uneven with lack of focus and his forehead creasing as he collects the meaning in Luck’s words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luck waves this half-hearted protest aside. “Don’t try that on me, you’re not  _nearly_  drunk enough for that.” He steps in closer, crossing over the edge of polite distance into Dallas’s personal space; it’s a test, an easy one. Dallas starts to take a step back, stumbling back to comfortable, but he only shifts one foot, and when he shifts it’s to lean in, not away, responsive as Luck knew he would be. Luck lets his gaze drop to the other’s half-buttoned jacket, the line of fabric askew over his shoulder and his shirt unbuttoned well past the point of decency. He touches his fingers to the color in the jacket’s lapel, identifiable only because he knows to look for the shades of red in the night-dim light.

“You’re here for the same reason you always are.” He slides his hand down an inch, sideways, catches his thumb at the open line of shirt. Dallas jerks at the touch to his bare skin, doesn’t move away. “And if you weren’t trying to hide it from yourself you wouldn’t need to be this drunk before you came.” Luck traces farther down, to the topmost button still fastened. “You’ve always been easy to read.”

“Shut up,” Dallas protests, but he’s still tipping in, he’s reaching for Luck’s half-loosened tie. “You don’t fucking know me.” His pull is easy to predict, too hard and clumsy with lack of coordination, and Luck could resist it if he wants. But he’s working Dallas’s shirt open with the tips of his fingers, and there’s always something appealing about the raw desperation in Dallas at times like this, and instead he’s shutting his eyes and tipping his head to ease the drunken clumsiness of Dallas’s kiss. There’s the sharp edge of teeth at his lip, a huff of breath as Dallas hums against his skin; then Luck lines their mouths up properly, eases the painful angle into something more reasonable, and opens his mouth before Dallas can even formulate a demand.

Dallas tastes like alcohol, the sweet-sharp burn of cheap liquor drunk in excess until Luck can taste the hangover that will inevitably come for him. It tastes like all the self-conscious guilt Luck long ago did away with in his own life, laid over with the reckless anxiety for instant gratification that inevitably brings him here to Luck’s door, late at night when his inhibitions have faded but some level of coordination remains. He’s hard by the time Luck works his shirt all the way open and slides his fingers down over the front of his pants, probably has been since before he headed in this direction, and he whines like he’s begging when Luck tightens his fingers experimentally over the fabric.

“Not yet,” Luck murmurs against Dallas’s mouth. He’s expecting the frustration in the tug at his tie, the vicious snap of words as Dallas pulls back: “What, can’t you get it up?” The hand that grabs at him is far from gentle, it’s rough with insecure anxiety masked into aggression, but Luck  _does_  know Dallas better than Dallas thinks he does, and he’s expecting the dig of fingers against him.

“That’s not the problem,” he says, speaking soft so his words are almost lost to the whimper of want in Dallas’s throat as he feels  _exactly_  how wrong he is. “But after coming all the way out here don’t you want more than a quick handjob?”

“ _Fuck_  yeah I do.” Dallas is leaning in closer, ducking his head to pant against Luck’s shoulder, but no sooner do his lips make contact than there’s the scrape of teeth, and Luck can’t let him leave telltale marks.

“No.” He closes his hand on a fistful of hair, drags Dallas back by his hold careless of the hiss of pain and protest from the other. When he lets him go Dallas doesn’t come back in immediately, gives Luck the opportunity to walk past him, away from the door and into the darker shadows alongside the alley wall. The wall is cold but dry to the touch, when Luck presses his palm to it; that means it should leave his shirt clean, if rumpled. By the time he’s turning around to lean against the support Dallas is stumbling closer, reaching out to brace himself against the wall alongside Luck’s head and leaning in as if to resume their kissing.

“How  _dare_  you,” he says, but there’s no fire to the words, all the anger is sapped by the breathless want dripping off his words and the desperation in the fingers shoving Luck’s shirt up around his waist. “Don’t you know who I  _am_?”

“I know who you are,” Luck says, and drops his hand on Dallas’s shoulder. For all the other’s hissing protest he barely has to push at all before Dallas drops to his knees, takes his mouth out of range of Luck’s lips and on level with the loose bottom edge of his shirt. He leans in too quick, presses his open lips to the thin white of the fabric before Luck can push him far enough back to get his hand down and manage his belt.

“You need to be quiet,” Luck reminds Dallas, like he always does, like he has to every time. Dallas is rocking against his knees, anxious with want and panting against the line of Luck’s wrist as he gets his belt open, unfastens his pants. “Go slowly.”

“Yeah, yeah, I  _know_ ,” Dallas insists as he comes in too quickly, slides his mouth down around Luck’s cock while the other is still sliding his clothes aside. He moves too fast, keeps his mouth too wide to maintain anything like enough suction and isn’t careful with his tongue, but what he lacks in technique he more than makes up for with enthusiasm. Luck reaches out to touch the top of Dallas’s head, feathers his fingers against the other’s hair as he goes fully hard against the wet slick of Dallas’s mouth on him. Dallas’s fingernails dig into Luck’s hip, leave tiny bruises that can at least be covered by a shirt, and when he moves again Luck can make out the edge of a rhythm under the raw motion, the outline of intention under poorly-developed instinct.

“That’s enough,” he says after another moment, when Dallas is starting to move faster and coming perilously close to scraping his teeth against Luck’s skin. He has to pull at Dallas’s hair to urge him backwards, and even when the other finally moves he blinks up at Luck with glazed eyes that speak all too clearly of his total lack of attention to the other’s words. It’s this as much as anything else that keeps Luck tolerant of Dallas’s behavior, lets him forgive that the other only ever comes by when he’s staggering drunk, that he can’t manage to control his temper when he’s sober or his libido when he’s not, because everything else aside the way Dallas looks like this -- as if it’s the taste of Luck’s skin intoxicating him as much as the alcohol, as if he was made to give sloppy blowjobs and could maybe come just from that -- is enough to finally catch Luck’s breathing unsteady in his throat.

“Stand up,” he says, closing his hand around Dallas’s half-unbuttoned shirt to drag him to his feet, because there’s no way the other is listening to words anymore. Dallas is past the point of protest, past even token resistance; his lips are still damp from Luck’s cock, his tongue still salty and faintly bitter as he leans in for another kiss, just as rough and unpolished as the first. Luck only lets him for a moment -- he wants more than kissing, now, and from the pressure of Dallas digging into his hip so does the other -- before he curls his fingers into the back of the other’s neck, pulls his away so Luck can shift him sideways and against the wall.

Dallas knows this part, or remembers enough of previous interludes to play his part even when he must be hazy with drink and arousal together. His hands hit the wall hard, palms grinding into the dirt and nicotine stains from years of backalley smokers. He doesn’t try to help Luck as the other reaches around to unfasten Dallas’s belt and pants; he’s shaking already, though, trembling through his entire body with anticipation before Luck has even accidentally brushed against him.

“You need to be quiet,” Luck says, although he knows the warning is lost before the words have left his lips. “We aren’t likely to have visitors but it still happens, sometimes.”

“Nng,” Dallas whine, incoherent non-response to the statement, and Luck slides his zipper down, brushes his fingers up against Dallas’s cock through the last thin layer of fabric. Dallas moans louder than he ought, enough that it echoes off the steep walls, but he jerks, too, rocks back against Luck’s hips as his cock twitches hard against the other’s fingers, and Luck doesn’t have it in him to offer another warning that will be as ignored as the first.

“I’ll just have to be quick,” he says instead, more to himself than to Dallas, draws his hand away and to his mouth to lick over his fingers while he pushes Dallas’s clothes down to his knees with his other hand. Dallas is already standing with his feet far apart, arching back with so much anticipation it’s obscenely suggestive even before Luck gets his clothes half-off. Then the fabric slides down, bares skin so pale it almost glows in the faint light from the street, and Luck draws his fingers free of his mouth. They’re slick with saliva, just enough to be slippery so when he reaches down to press gently against Dallas’s entrance he can feel the ease of the motion to come.

“ _Luck_ ,” Dallas whines, desperate and pleading and unmistakably the presumed-straight delinquent son of the Genoard family. If anyone  _is_  within earshot, his precious self-deception will be shattered, but Luck doesn’t care particularly about how Dallas lies to himself as long as he’s honest right now. He tips his hand up, angles his fingers in, presses hard and smoothly so he sinks an inch into the heat of Dallas’s body. Dallas jerks, shudders a groan, but he takes both fingers easily enough, even with the minimal lubrication. Luck raises an eyebrow, although Dallas can’t see his expression, thrusts in deeper while he fits his other hand at the other’s hip to hold him in place.

“You’ve been practicing.” His fingers slide in the last inch, draw back so he can thrust again. Dallas whines, arches his back into a perfect curve and shoves back against Luck’s hand in wordless encouragement. Luck isn’t sure he’s listening at all. “This will be much easier than last time.”

“Hurry up,” Dallas snaps. Luck is impressed he’s following the conversation, the more so for the shake in his knees and across the plane of his shoulders. “I didn’t come out here for you to talk at me.”

“I know.” Luck pushes in once more, his hand twisted at a steep angle so all Dallas’s body snaps trembling-tight with sensation for a moment; then he pulls his fingers free, brushes against his own length as if he needs any further encouragement. He can feel the sensation jolt all through him like electricity, his expression shuddering into gasping pleasure that he’s glad Dallas doesn’t see. It’s enough that the other will feel the unsteadiness in his fingers when he reaches out to brace himself, can hear the gasp under his breathing if he listens at all. “I know what you come here for.”

Dallas whines again, one long unbroken whimper high in his vocal range, and it might not be coherent but that doesn’t mean it’s not understandable. Luck leans in, close enough that he can tip his head and rest his forehead against Dallas’s shoulder, and starts to push forward and into him. Dallas goes quiet, all the sound in his throat stolen by sensation or a shift in his focus or just that he’s getting what he wanted all along, but Luck can still hear the rush of his exhale as he breathes out too-fast, all at once without any trace of restraint. The air is cool, the warmth of the day fading fast into night, but Dallas is burning, hot and radiant with the alcohol setting fire to his veins. If Luck had bare skin under his shoulder he would form a kiss, appreciation and raw physical pleasure making him gentle and affectionate; luckily there’s just fabric, so all he does is suck in a hard breath as he sinks in the last inch, pauses for a moment so they can both breathe. Dallas’s hand are formed into fists against the wall, his shoulder are taut with anxious want; when Luck lets one of his hands go to reach around his hip Dallas is hard to the touch, the head of his cock going slick before Luck has even really touched him.

“Quiet,” Luck offers as futile reminder, and he closes his fingers around Dallas’s length, starts to stroke up over him a moment before he draws his hips back for another thrust. Dallas shudders again, the sound of his breathing loud for Luck but close enough to silence to let it stand. Besides, Luck’s own interest in secrecy is coming apart, evaporating off under the warmth of Dallas’s body around him and under his fingertips. He imagines even his mouth is going hot through the multiple layers of cloth between them, like he can taste the heat under his fingers secondhand across his tongue. Dallas is shaking, the motion running out along his spine and falling into inadvertent synchronicity with Luck’s own rhythm, like he always does when he doesn’t think about it. Dallas is always easier to deal with like this, when he’s too far gone between the booze and the sensation and his own too-long repressed desires to fight himself to a standstill. He’s starting to pant, is leaning in harder on the wall as his legs prove too unsteady to take his weight, and the farther he tips forward the deeper Luck can go, the harder Dallas gasps on each of the other’s thrusts.

“Shit,” he manages as Luck shifts his feet farther apart, steadies his balance so he can get a better angle. “I -- fuck, I’m --” He trails off, lets his words dissolve into a groan, but Luck doesn’t need to be told. He can feel how hard Dallas is under his fingers, how slippery his own hold is going with the pre-come smearing over his palm, and his own breathing is stuttering in anticipation of Dallas’s finish as much as his own.

“I know,” he says, so softly he’s not sure Dallas can hear him, and strokes up harder still, quick and out-of-time with the steady rhythm of his hips. Dallas’s back arches, he wails a moan so desperate it catches into an echo on the walls, and Luck goes still for a moment as Dallas bucks into his hand and comes over his fingers. Luck keeps his hold tight and still, lets the ripples of pleasure wash Dallas into breathless satisfaction; then he loosens his grip, takes a careful breath, and starts moving again.

Dallas is patient with him, the only time Luck can ever recall such from the other man. He’s still panting for the rhythm of his breathing when Luck’s blood starts to spark hot with adrenaline and expectation, still slumped boneless and heavy against the wall when Luck’s fingers at his hip spasm unintentionally tight. He only moves just as Luck starts to slide over the edge, right as the rhythm of the sensation becomes too much to resist, and even then it’s only to twist his shoulders, angle the sharp line of his jaw so he can glance over his shoulder. Luck lifts his head, involuntarily glancing at the motion in his periphery, and catches a glimpse of the heat in Dallas’s eyes just as his movements go instinctive and uncontrolled, a moment before his throat closes on sound and the rush of sensation whites out all his other senses. There’s no sight, no sound, no real awareness of anything but heat and pressure and the low thrum of pleasure into his veins; he doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing for a moment until he gasps an inhale and his vision starts to shimmer back into importance.

Dallas is still looking at him, his dark eyes gone black in the low light; Luck blinks, stares at him for a moment that stretches so long it almost seems important. Then Dallas looks away again, leans in to press his forehead to the wall, and Luck looks back down, watches what he’s doing as he pulls back and moves away instead of trying to read anything understandable into the other’s expression. Dallas manages his own clothes, although it takes him a moment to recover his composure enough to attempt the process and longer to actually work the zipper and buttons. He’s still fumbling with his belt when Luck touches the back of his neck and freezes all the other’s motion into breathless expectation.

“You should get some sleep,” he points out, because it’s true, and because he knows Dallas won’t listen to him anyway. “Go home.”

“Yeah, sure.” It’s sarcasm, or the closest thing Dallas can muster laid over the warm satisfaction in his voice. With Dallas’s back turned Luck lets himself smile at the other’s shoulders, lets his eyes go briefly soft before he slides his fingers down to the collar of Dallas’s rumpled jacket. Dallas doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch away or voice any protest; Luck thinks he might be holding his breath, for the moment between Luck’s fingers leaving his skin and Luck’s mouth taking their place.

It’s only a breath that he lingers, only a feather-light brush of lips against skin. But he sees Dallas’s hand come up to unconsciously touch the lingering warm as Luck moves to leave, the gesture too reflexive for the other to call back or stall into stillness.

It’s enough to make him smile, as he goes back to the warmth and the light and leaves Dallas to the night.


End file.
